As brothers here we've shared the smiles,
 The tears of boyhood's hour,
 And felt the sweet companionship
 Of manhood's love and power.
But now the tie is snapped. He's fled
 Beyond the mortal sight.
 The grave with all its mystery
 Asserts Death's power to blight.
Alas! Death seems the cruel thing
 In this bright world of ours.
 The bravest soul shrinks from its hold
 Though loving faith empowers.
But, hark! Is 't not his voice I hear,
 With comfort as of yore?
 "Dear brother, Death is but more Life,
 The grave is heaven's door."

TO MRS. PARTINGTON.

July 12, 1886.

Another birthday here?
 It hardly seems a year
 Since I these words did hear,—
 When three score years and one did crown thee,—
 "Not till I am an octagon,
 Or, worse still, a centurion,
 Shall I be old, with factories gone
 All idiomatic and forlorn."
But thou art still a "membrane" dear
 Of what we call society's cheer;
 "Ordained beforehand, in advance."
 ('Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,)
To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting,
 But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring,
 Of "fluid" thoughts which counteract
 The "bigamies" of fate and fact.
Alas! thy crutch of many years
 Still hints "romantic" pains and fears;
 A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say,
 To keep "plumbago" still at bay!
Its helpful mission has a share
 In "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare.
 And, by the way, not crutch alone
 Finds in that book its value shown.
There in the depths of friendship's mines
 Are seen thy tenderest, purest lines;
 Impromptus born at love's command
 To deck occasion's wise demand.
One finds no "Sarah's desert" there,
 No "reprehensible" despair;
 But teeming thoughts on Mounds and Press
 Poured out in pure unselfishness.
This brings to mind thy Knitting-Work,
 Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk,
 And other books with humor rife,
 Done in the priming of thy life.
"Contusion of ideas." O no;
 What "Angular Saxon" would say so?
 "Congestive thoughts then so inane
 They'd decompose the soundest brain."
Yes, there it is, thy humor still,
 Not seventy years and two can kill.
 'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore,
 A "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store.

LINES

SENT TO THE DINNER GIVEN IN HONOR OF WALT WHITMAN'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, AT CAMDEN, N.J., MAY 31, 1889, AT 5 O'CLOCK P.M.

"Splendor of ended day floating and filling me,"B
 Comes to my mind as I think of the hour
 When our poet and friend will be lovingly drinking
 The mystical cup of the seventy years' power.
Were I the man-of-war bird he has pictured
 Nothing could keep me from flying that way.
 But, though absent in body, there's nothing can hinder
 My tasting the joys of that festive birthday;
For on the swift wings of the ending day's splendor
 My soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's wealth.
 Who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure friendship
 Will feel, 'midst the joy, what I drink to his health?—
 Splendor of ended day
 Be but the door
 Opening the endless way
 Life evermore.

B "Song at Sunset."—W. W.

SONNETS.

THE KNOWN GOD.

(Suggested by Arlo Bates' sonnet, "The Unknown God," published in the Boston Courier of August 21, 1887.)

If Paul in Athens' street left nothing more
 Than what he found when deep in sacred thought,
 He stood and marvelled o'er what had been wrought,—
 The To the Unknown God of heathen lore,—
 Then were he only one on thought's wide shore
 To lose his name in others. But, heaven-taught,
 Undaunted, and in words experienced-fraught,
 Declared he God as known forevermore.
Paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred life,
 Are more than vision deified. They are
 Love's balm to permeate true mental strife,
 And bring to sin-sick weary souls a star
 Of hope born of temptation's struggles rife.
 To the Known God. Through Paul we dare thus far.

August, 1887.

TO PHILLIPS BROOKS.

O type of manhood, strong, serene, and chaste,
 Attuned to law of man as well as God,
 We hail thee as a guide, who, having trod
 With Christ the spirit-fields, in eager haste
 Makes glad return to give us blessed taste
 Of fruit there found. Through thee our feet are shod
 With gospel-peace, while thy imperial rod
 Becomes our need in times of drought or waste.
How can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer,
 O master-spirit of the priests of earth?
 By daily doing penance without fear,
 Or resting satisfied in deeds of worth?
 O no! 'Tis when we breathe love's atmosphere,
 And live like thee the life of heavenly birth.

Boston, 1890.

AT THE "PORTER MANSE."

[That part of the Porter Manse containing the room referred to was built early in the last half of the seventeenth century. It was the house which Wenham (the first distinct township set off—in 1639—from Salem) gave to the second pastor of its church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who married, while living there, Governor Winthrop's daughter. It was bought by John Porter in 1703, and has remained in his family name without alienation to this day.]

Before a smouldering fire at twilight hour
 I muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed,
 Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that teemed
 Two hundred years ago with life and power.
 I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flower
 In light of home; while life that only seemed
 On history's page becomes the real, redeemed
 From all the chaff that time fails not to shower.
Ah, such old places, holding through the years
 Continuous life of man's activity,
 Reveal a wealth beyond that which appears
 In modern homes built e'er so lovingly.
 Imbued so long with human hopes and fears,
 Have they not claim to personality?

OUR LADY OF THE MANSE.

Of all those born into the name to share
 The charming freedom of the Porter Manse,
 None were more worthy of inheritance
 Than she who now presides as lady there.
 Her gracious calm makes hospitality wear
 A beauteous crown of peace. Kind tolerance
 And wide-embracing sympathy enhance
 Her power to please and lighten daily care.
'Tis only such rare souls who pierce the truth
 Of home-life secrets, and through tact and grace,
 Make growing years reflect the joys of youth.
 They lose not hope, though sorrow leave a trace
 In all their joy. Such cannot fail, forsooth,
 Of making home a loved abiding place.

TO B. P. SHILLABER.

July 12, 1888.

When lingering Day at last recedes from sight,
 And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place,
 Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved face
 Reflecting glorious rays of sunset light,
 'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delight
 Through oft-frequented avenues of space
 To those dear souls—the dearest of the race—
 Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height.
 From this old mountain-top I come to you,
 My large souled trusted friend of many a year,
 With birthday greetings of the roseate hue
 Left by a perfect Day just lingering here.
 Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true,
 And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer!

Mount Wachusett, Mass.

TO OUR MARY.

Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need,
 Forgetting self, if only we be served,
 How oft thy loving sympathy has nerved
 Our fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed,
 Or brought to being thoughts that intercede
 For others' progress. We, all undeserved,
 Cannot forget that life to ends thus curved
 Made time for us to plant our own pet seed.
The world owes much to many a sister dear,
 Who, banishing with tears in midnight hour
 A fond desire for larger, happier sphere,
 Strives faithfully in lowly life to shower
 Rich daily blessings. Such may know e'en here
 A Christ-like joy unknown to worldly power.

Chelsea, Mass., 1887.

A BIRTHDAY REMEMBRANCE.

TO F. D. L.

September 26.

Time brings to thee from out his storehouse old
 Another year, which graciously awaits
 Thy fair soul's bidding, as it estimates
 The wealth the parting year has left untold.
 Clothed in chameleon garments, which unfold
 The fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates,
 It brings continued hope of life that dates
 Man's finest being. Thou its secrets hold!
 Are not such birthdays restful stepping stones,
 To aid the growing soul pick out the way
 To life eternal? Not earth's bitterest moans
 Or wildest joys can man's true progress stay,
 If, in these pauses, he but hear the tones
 Of immortality's soothing, deathless lay.

1887.

JOSEF HOFMANN.

(After hearing him play at Boston Music Hall in 1888.)

O marvellous child, a temple where in ease
 Expectant Genius dwells, while lingering here
 On earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere,
 Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keys
 To new and wondrous unheard harmonies?
 O favored boy, marked out to be the peer
 Of those who in all ages God's voice hear,
 Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees!
Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates,
 This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine!
 May chilling poverty, or sin that dates
 Soul loss, ne'er hinder Genius' wise design
 To have full sway—as she anticipates—
 In working out, in time, her laws divine.

I.

AFTER THE DENIAL.

John 21: 15–18.

When fast was broken on Tiberias' shore,
 The risen Lord, still anxious that his own
 Should know love's secret as to him 'twas known,
 Thrice asked of Peter, "Lovest thou me more
 Than these?" The third time Peter's heart was sore.
 Must even love divine have doubt's sad tone?
 "Thou knowest, Lord, I love thee," was his moan.
 Then, "Feed my sheep," Christ answered as before.
 Still in these days the risen Lord bends o'er
 The shores of time, and longs for human love;
 The love that hears his voice, awake, asleep,
 And makes response as Peter did of yore.
 "Lovest thou me?" O Christ, from heights above,
 Thou knowest that we love thee. "Feed my sheep."

II.

GETHSEMANE.

Matthew 26:36–46.

"Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heart
 Of Christ, still longing in the bitterest hour
 For human sympathy and love to shower
 A needed strength beyond words to impart!
 Humanity is richer for this art
 Of seeing in poor finite man a power—
 Before which even ministering angels cower—
 To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's smart.
 Alas! the power to know will bring the pain.
 But through the pain of wisdom's true insight
 Is Christ's own perfect sympathy made plain.
 Possessed of this, we see in tenderest light
 His sorrowing heart in failing to obtain
 The longed-for love in hour of darkest night.

ON LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG.

By old Owl's Head on Memphremagog's side,
 In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and bold,
 The spirit of the waters, as of old,
 Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide,
 It whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride,
 The heart of man has on its bosom told;
 And hails as conqueror Him who once did hold
 Its heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried.
Loved spirit of the waters, we too hail
 The power of Him who walked the holy sea
 Of Galilee. Capacity to fail
 Were harder to believe than victory.
 May He who conquered wildest Nature's heart
 His infinite power and rest to us impart!

August, 1891.

LUKE 23:24.

From holy depths he to the Father prayed,
 "Forgive them, for they know not what they do."
 His heart, pierced then with anguish through and through,
 Cried out "'Tis finished," as he death obeyed.
 In bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was weighed
 With tenderest love and longing towards those who,
 Through ignorance of what they might be too,
 Were now the slaves of evil passion's raid.
 "They know not what they do." O blessed sight
 Into the heart of sin's great mystery.
 Forgiveness here is shown in sweetest light,
 Clothed in her garment of sincerity.
 Blest are those souls who reach this precious height;
 They know the secret of Christ's victory.

TO THE MEMBERS OF MY HOME CLUB.C

While dwelling in sweet wisdom's fruitful ways,
 In company with poets grand and good
 Who met our human nature's every mood,
 What life was ours, beyond our words to praise!
 In seeking for the secret of the lays
 Which clothed in art pure Nature's daily food,
 Or brought to light a Christian brotherhood,
 Did we not garner thoughts for future days?
 'Tis one of wisdom's joys, while lingering here
 To plant her seeds of righteousness and peace,
 To give a sweet companionship and cheer
 To those who seek from her their soul's increase.
 This, friends, we've felt in our Club atmosphere.
 May its sweet memory linger till life cease!

Chelsea, Mass., 1888.

C For an account of this Home Club, see the Boston Literary World, of July 9, 1887, and June 9, 1888; also, Lend a Hand, for September, 1889.

FOR MY LITTLE NEPHEWS AND NIECES.

A MAMMA'S LULLABY.

Dream of loveliest beauty in thine hour of sleep,
 Harold, baby boy.
 Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby.
 Catch the sweetest glimpses of the heavenly bliss,
 While the holy angels bless thee with a kiss.
 Lullaby, lullaby.
 So shall mamma feel a breath
 Of celestial power,
 To beautify the ministry,
 Of baby's waking hour.
 Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,
 Harold, baby boy.
 Lullaby, lullaby.

WARREN'S SONG.

How I love you, baby dear,
 Sister Rosamond!
 I must kiss you,
 I must hug you,
 I must be your little beau,
 To protect you
 Or to rescue
 From the faults of friend or foe.
 I must grow more wise and graceful
 Every way,
 That I may be true and helpful
 For the day
 When, as lovely fair young woman,
 You will need my stay.
 Darling Rosebud,
 How I love you,
 How I love you, sister dear!
 Oh, I will be good and pure,
 Striving always to endure
 What will make me honest, kind,
 Generous, manly, strong in mind,
 Worthy of my Rosebud.
 Darling Rosebud,
 Sweetest Rosebud,
 How I love you, sister dear!

BABY MILDRED.

Darling baby Mildred, playing on the floor—
 I see!
 Creeping here and creeping there,
 Into mischief everywhere,
 Mamma's little pet and care—
 I see!
Fearless baby Mildred, on her rocking horse—
 I see!
 Never slipping from her place,
 Joyous laughter keeping pace
 With a motion full of grace—
 I see!
Thoughtful baby Mildred, papa's pet and pride—
 I know!
 Lighting up the passing days
 With such happy, winsome ways,
 Joy of household life that pays—
 I know!
Tired baby Mildred, lovely eyes all closed—
 Sleep on!
 Waking, heaven will be more near
 For the angels' presence here,
 Whispering secrets in her ear—
 Sleep on! Sleep on!

ROSAMOND AND MILDRED.

Rosamond and Mildred, playing on the floor—
 I see!
 Laughing blue eyes, dimpled face,
 Laughing brown eyes, ways of grace,
 Chubby hands that interlace—
 I see!
Rosamond and Mildred, trying hard to walk—
 I see!
 Clinging now to mamma's dress,
 Trembling in new happiness,
 Then at last a sweet success—
 I see!
Rosamond and Mildred, born the same glad year—
 I know!
 Cousins; each in her own way
 Growing wiser every day,
 Full of promise as of play—
 I know!
Rosamond and Mildred, parting to go home—
 Good-bye!
 Each a little picture fair,
 Carrying blessing everywhere.
 Grateful are we for our share—
 Good-bye! Good-bye!

'CHILLA.

Chinchilla? Come, 'Chilla!—
 Ah, here she comes bounding,
 So quickly responding,
 Oh, who could but love her!
 Her fur like chinchilla—
 Her movements all grace—
 Such a wise little face—
 What kitty is like her?
 Oh, who could but love her,
 Our dear pretty 'Chilla!

CHILDISH FANCIES.

(A FACT.)

My little nephew, four years old,
 A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy,
 Was one day playing by my side
 With this and that pet toy,
When all at once he said to me,—
 As, laying down my book,
 I paused a while to watch with joy
 His bright, expressive look,—
"If Mac and I should plant today
 Some paper in the ground,
 Say, would it grow to be a book
 Like yours, with leaves all bound?"
These were the same two little boys
 Whose nurse searched far and wide
 For little sister's rubber shoes;
 "Where can they be?" she cried.
"I know," replied Mac, eagerly,
 "We planted them last night,
 To see if they would bigger grow
 To fit our feet all right."
Dear little boys! These fancies hint
 Of future questions deep,
 When evolution's grand idea
 Shall o'er their vision sweep.
God grant that when these come to them,
 As at Truth's shrine they bow,
 A childlike faith and earnestness
 May fill them then as now.

WHAT LITTLE BERTRAM DID.

(A FACT)

Our little Bertram, six years old,
 Sat on his grandpa's knee,
 Enjoying to the full the love
 That grandpa gave so free,
When, looking up bewitchingly,
 He said,—the little teaze,—
 "Will grandpa give me just one cent
 To buy some candy, please?"
Who could resist such loveliness?
 This grandpa could not, sure.
 So with a kiss he gave the cent—
 Ah, how such things allure!
No sooner was the cent in hand,
 Than off the fair boy ran
 To buy his candy, "'lasses kind,"
 Or little "candy-man."
Now on his way, in scanning well
 A window full of toys,
 He spied a ring with big red stone,
 O'erlooked by other boys.
All thought of candy was forgot.
 He'd buy that ring so fine
 For his new sister, Rosamond—
 Oh, how his eyes did shine!
How could he stop to calculate
 The size of such a thing;
 His only care was for the price—
 Would one cent buy the ring?
Ah yes, it would. The ring was bought;
 And never girl or boy
 Went tripping homeward through the streets
 With greater wealth or joy.

"DEAR LITTLE MAC."D

(A FACT.)

When nearly eight years old, dear little Mac
 Was called from out his happy home-life here
 To that blest sphere
 Beyond earth's dearest power to call him back.
"His questions wise will now sure answer find,"
 Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face,
 In happy chase
 Of many a thought which flitted through his mind.
"Yes, he knows more than we," another said,
 "Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guide
 To where abide
 The things we need most to be comforted."
While thus the older ones their comfort sought,
 Two of the children paused in midst of play,
 To have their say
 Concerning this great mystery Death had brought.
"Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh,
 "He's gone way up to heaven where angels are,
 Way up so far
 That we can't ever see him till we die."
"He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be.
 I saw them put him in the cold dark ground,
 And I went round
 And threw some flowers in for him to see."
"He isn't there," replied the four-year old,
 "He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so.
 He is, I know.
 He isn't in the ground all dark and cold."
A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought,
 While Miriam felt the joy of victory.
 Then suddenly
 The lovely six-year-old this idea caught:
"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground;
 His head, his feet, and every other part,
 But just his heart—
 And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found."
The child thus solved the thought that troubled so.
 And as I overheard this earnest talk,—
 Which might some shock,—
 I wondered if we could more wisdom show.
As each seemed satisfied, their play went on.
 But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind,
 And left behind
 The wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone.
At last, when ready for their sweet "Good Night,"
 She softly said, "It can't be very dark,
 Not very dark
 For Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light."
Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days,
 Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide,
 When sadly tried
 By doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways.

D MacLaurin Cooke Gould, died in Maplewood, Mass., November 8, 1887.

WILLARD AND FLORENCE ON MOUNT WACHUSETT.

July, 1888.

Happy little girl and boy,
 Dancing hand in hand
 Over hill and valley land,
 Filled with summer joy;
Climbing up the steep path side
 To Wachusett's top,
 With that graceful skip and hop
 Born where fairies hide;
Seeing Holyoke from the height,
 Old Monadnock clear,
 While Washacum twin-lakes near
 Sparkle in sun-light;
Tripping down the mountain-road
 Back to cottage home,
 Only pausing there to roam
 Where laurel finds abode;
Jumping on the new-mown hay,
 Sitting under trees,
 Feeling every mountain breeze,
 Hearing birds' sweet lay;
Lying on the mossy stone
 By the brook's cascade,
 Listening 'neath the sylvan shade
 To its rippling tone;
Down at pretty Echo Lake,
 Plucking maiden-hair,
 Gathering glistening "sundew" there
 For "dear mamma's sake";
Picking in the pastures near
 Berries red and blue;
 Spying where the mayflowers grew
 Earlier in the year;
Watching for the sun to rise,
 Following sunset-cloud,
 Singing low and singing loud
 While the swift day flies;
Waiting for the "Tally-Ho,"
 With its looked-for mails,
 Hearing strangers tell their tales
 As they come and go;
Happy little girl and boy,
 Dancing hand in hand
 Over hill and valley land,
 Filled with summer joy.

A LITTLE BRAZILIAN.

(A FACT.)